Tangents

My Father's <i>Tree</i>

13 January 2012, 18:00 PM

By Ihtisham Kabir

My Father; His Buddha Narikel Tree. Photo: Ihtisham Kabir

In one of my earliest memories, my father stands patiently under a Krishnachura tree in our Sylhet home, right hand holding a microphone while the left cradles a small reel-to-reel tape recorder where he collected various bird songs. It is spring and the tree is awash in red flowers. He is waiting for a bou-katha-kao bird to start singing for his recorder. Bored with the utter silence he demands, I leave his side, but later that afternoon, he plays back the bird songs for his family. They sound scratchy and distant - even muffled occasionally - but are magical to my young ears. Decades later, when I search my memory for guidance from him, I find little direct advice, most of it health related. “Eat fresh fruits,” or “Exercise regularly.” Any worldly or serious matter was to be resolved on my own: “Do what you think is right.” That was his way of ensuring independent children. There was one memorable exception to his hands-off policy. When I was in Class Three, my parents asked me to write an essay on “The Cow.” The result, which began with “Cow S A” and went downhill from there, shocked my father. He resolved to fix my English. Every evening after work for the next three months, he rigorously tutored me, navigating me through the treacherous waters of English grammar. For the nation, too, he dutifully did his part. In 1952, while studying at Dhaka University, he joined the Language Movement. On February 21, while demonstrating, he crossed a police barricade at the University. Police attacked him, beat him up, and left him unconscious. Friends rushed him to Dhaka Medical College hospital, where he was treated. A few years before his death, citizens of Sylhet formally honoured him as a Bhasha Shoinik. Among his friends he was celebrated for his wit and practical jokes. He once attached a car jack to the bottom of a bed where his older cousin was sleeping and slowly tilted the entire bed, creating a seismic shock for his sleepy victim. Another time, protesting against his mother's dictum, he dove into a nearby pond and stayed in there for the entire day, chanting “I'd rather die of pneumonia,” until she changed her mind. For many years, my father and two uncles had their office in Dhaka's Dilkusha, near Gono Bhaban (President's House.) Inside the Bhaban grounds were some magnificent tall trees. The grounds were closed to the public, but my father wanted to grow those trees himself. So he paid a guard ten taka to bring him seeds which had dropped from the trees. These, he planted and nurtured. After four decades, one of the trees that my father planted, a Buddha Narikel, is over six stories high, standing strong and graceful. January 7th was the fourth death anniversary of Mr. Ahmed Kabir Choudhury. I pray he is resting in peace.